Inverse Function
by ittykat
Summary: AU: "I'm a soldier, not a spy." - Natasha once met a man who had a very specific skill set, who had earned a reputation. SHIELD sent her to kill him.


There aren't really that many contract killers out there, despite what Hollywood would have you believe. Or at least, not many of her calibre. There are lots of guns for hire, women paid to kill, men who offer their services to the highest bidder. But if you have a certain amount of money, and a certain kind of enemy. There are only a handful of people who you'd look to for help. And chances are, you'd never know their name, never see their face, never acknowledge their existence. It's simply a discrete money transfer, and a name, and then the job is done.

At any one time you only have a handful operating across the globe.

She used to be one of them.

He is one of the others.

Fury and Coulson are both there the morning Natasha gets her orders. Usually she gets her missions from one or the other, not both, but she's a good soldier. She doesn't question them, or the mission.

And the mission is simple enough. They have good intel that pinpoints a fugitive's location and she is being sent to kill him. It's exactly the sort of mission she was given two months ago, and she took out a key Ten Rings member. It's exactly the sort of mission that they'll give her next week, when she gets back from Abu Dhabi.

She salutes them both and leaves, with the mission dossier tucked into her briefcase, right next to her gun.

She reads the dossier on the plane.

* * *

**Target:**

Clinton Francis "Clint" Barton. AKA: "Hawkeye"

**Objective:**

Engage and eliminate before target can complete his assignment.

**Situation:**

We have received reliable intelligence that the rogue agent designated "Hawkeye" has been contracted to assassinate Isa Bin Kahlid, a member of the royal family in Abu Dhabi and Foreign Minister of the United Arab Emirates. Protection has been supplied to the royal family.

**Execution:**

At the discretion of the operative.

* * *

It is oppressively hot, but the simple cotton hijab she wears protects her from the worst of the Rub' al Khali desert. It also has the secondary benefit of hiding her distinct hair. She is not above more permanent methods of concealment, but to dye it would take time she does not have.

She cases the Prince's compound discretely, stepping into the shoes of a sniper as she purchases a coffee from a local cafe. It is a lavish building, surrounded by high walls on each side, all too tall to scale without assistance. Ten years ago the walls alone would've protected Kahlid from the sniper, but the rapid urbanisation of the United Arab Emirates has encroached upon the compound, with medium-sized office buildings scattering the streets around, any one of which would do for Hawkeye's purposes.

It is midday when she sends her threat assessment through to Coulson, and there is nothing in the document she didn't know before she landed. If she is to have any chance at taking this guy out, she'll need to get close to him. And in order to get close to him, she'll have to be a ghost, clinging to the shadows and to the black parts of the world, the hidden corners that people avoid looking at, for fear of what will look back at them.

By 2:00 she receives the analyst's notes on her threat assessment. They indicate that the most likely target primary position is a building to the north of the compound owned by a moderately successful mining corporation. Almost anywhere from the 4th floor upwards would give him a clear view into the master bedroom. Armor piercing rounds would make quick work of the bulletproof glass. Alternate is an apartment building down the street with similar advantages.

Natasha reads the intel with the same detached interest as she did the original dossier. It is definitely an accurate analysis, and if she were hunting any other sniper she would accept their recommendation and stake out the primary and alternate without hesitation.

But Hawkeye is different.

He is more than just a gun for hire. He is a professional, he is the best...

But she has heard rumours. The priest in Montreal. The social worker in Stockholm. Neither hit was credited to him, but to Natasha's eye there are similarities to his record that she does not dismiss as lightly as some low level FBI investigator. Call it professional expertise.

And there are other anomalies in his record. There was a stretch of eighteen months in 2008-09 when he was oddly inactive, to the point that at least one international agency had listed him as 'likely neutralised', before he re-emerged in a flourish of hits so precise and violent and blatant that the intelligence community was unable to keep it from the press. It is almost as though he retired, or tried to go legit for a while... but then something happened... something...

It hints to her that this is a man with purpose. This is a man with agenda. This man has a work ethic, he is methodical, he is ex-military, like her.

But this is a man who can be compromised by his emotions.

Investigators found evidence that the priest was abusing altar boys. The social worker had actual bodies in his closet.

Both were shot at point blank range.

Natasha stakes out a building to the south. The multi-story office building has everything from dentists to a telecommunications call-centre, but there is a solicitors office on the seventh floor that is closed for renovations. She arrives a little before dusk, and the moment she spies the compound from the wide window, she knows she has the right position. The window has a perfect view into one of the spare bedrooms. With binoculars, she can see the bed, rust-coloured sheets obscured by dresses and clothes, carelessly tossed every-which way, as though someone had been agonising over the right outfit.

It is the bedroom of one of the Prince's wives, though which one she could not say. There is no cover in this office, no cupboard or desk for her to lie in wait, but that was never her plan. He is smart enough to ferret out risks like that before they become an issue for him, and she has lived this long without making a stupid mistake like that, and she doesn't plan on starting now.

She dismantles and cleans her weapons, stripping the parts back and reassembling them with the military precision that was beaten into her so many years before. It is hardly necessary, she keeps her guns in pristine order, but it has a soothing quality, almost as efficient as a shot of strong liquor.

By the time she cocks the gun and checks her ammo she is ready.

She waits.

And waits.

And waits.

And waits.

And then...

The door to the office clicks open, and a man slips through carrying a large case, mostly obscured in the cover of darkness. She slinks further back into the shadows, melting into the blackness of obscurity as he takes one step, two, three.

On four she points her gun at his head, and he whips around, pointing his own weapon between her eyes.

Neither takes a shot.

They are silent in their standoff, with barely the hint of moonlight casting a soft glow across the side of his face. She cannot read his expression.

"They sent you to kill me." He says. It is not a question. His aim does not waver.

"Yes." She says.

"Which one are you?" He asks, sounding curious, but not dismissive.

"Black Widow."

"Ahh." He nods a little in recognition. "S.H.I.E.L.D.'s man."

"Woman."

"Yes."

He looks away, slips his gun back in his holster and sets the heavy black case on the ground. Then, as though he is the only one in the room, as though she isn't training her weapon between his eyes, he kneels down and unlatches the case, extracting a collapsed recurve bow which he snaps into place with a practiced, sharp shoulder movement. "I'm not gonna beg for my life, or mercy, or any shit like that." He says, as he extracts a single arrow from the quiver packed in foam. "I just want one favour, before you do it."

Natasha keeps her gun trained directly between his eyes. She can hear Coulson's voice in her mind, telling her to take the shot while she has the upper hand, that this strange interaction is not the dying words of an insane man, of a calculating killer. But now she is in a room with him, a man she's only ever known through reports and briefings and crime scene photographs, now she can see the weariness behind his eyes. The unease, the pessimism. But through all that, there is something in this man's voice that she can't quite put her finger on, something that tells her this is genuine, that this a hopeless man's final hurrah.

He stands up straight and looks her straight in the eye, any uncertainty banished. "Let me finish this job. Let me kill him."

"I am not stupid." She says, flatly. "You will double cross me if I let you try."

He shakes his head. "I won't, Natasha."

And then he turns his back on her, and nocks the arrow against the bow string. He steps up to the window and the focus in his gaze indicates to her the truth of his alias.

"How do you know my name?" She asks, feeling, for the first time, a little off balance at the revelation.

"I'm a spy, give me some credit." He says, and his eyes dart back and forth, scanning the compound, then she sees a look of recognition flash across his face. The next target... _The last target_. He raises his bow and draws back the string...

_At the discretion of the operative_.

"Don't, Clint." She warns, and he hesitates, and turns to her.

She swallows a thick lump from her throat... And then...

"I have a counter offer."


End file.
